


The Woman In The Water

by aquila_stars



Series: The Case Books Of Watson and Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Kidnapping, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquila_stars/pseuds/aquila_stars
Summary: A short story about when a case takes Sherlock and John into the darkened countryside of Scotland, where a criminal trail leads them to the tale of the Woman in the Water - a vortex of crime, poison, kidnapping, murder and international intrigue.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: The Case Books Of Watson and Holmes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2171721
Kudos: 2





	The Woman In The Water

**Part 1: The Dead Don't Dream**

****

Sherlock Holmes climbed out of the cab and into the street. Immediately he was hit with the stinging sensation of the cold against his cheeks, and he pulled up his collar, tightening his scarf to combat the ice in the wind.

Winter had reached London, and it showed; the fountain in the park had frozen over, and spectral trees loomed over it, casting shadows in the misty November air. John's jumpers were becoming a more frequent clothing choice, Sherlock had noted - he didn't blame him. It felt good to be wrapped up in his dark trench coat and scarf as the days wore on. He continued down the dark street. He no longer knew where he was going. He was just walking. It felt good to be distracted.

Somewhere, a clock struck midnight, and Sherlock paused. The chimes echoed in the silence of the night, and his ears rang with the sound long after the clock had stopped. Oh how good it would feel to silence the clocks forever! For him to succumb to sleep, and let his mind find peace. Dreams plagued his mind every night, and even when he was awake, he felt the haunting impression they left on him. Sleep was no longer an option; the dreams were becoming nightmares.

Every night in his dreams he stood in a dark forest, and a second later he was running for his life. He could hear his breath falling unevenly as he passed trees, and his body tiring as he came to the edge of the path, and suddenly he was falling,

and falling,

and falling,

until he hit the water with a splash, and the depths swallowed him. The moon shone blue above the surface of the water, but he could no longer grasp onto the light as he was pulled downwards, his ears filled with the rushing sound of water, and there was someone shouting, and the blurred figure of a woman reaching for him. He felt her grasp his hand, and he gripped her in return. This was his lifeline and he could not afford to let go. She hauled him upwards, away from the current, and as he burst to the surface of the water gasping for breath, he woke up, sitting in his bed or on the sofa of 221B, in a hot sweat, his fingers trembling and eyes wide. 

Sleep was no longer an option.

Not when the woman had infected his mind. Memories were tainted and deductions influenced by the dream - there was nowhere he didn't see traces of it. The dream was becoming unbearable to withstand. He had thought about asking John for help, but quickly dismissed the idea. The doctor was unlikely to be of much help in this case. Even the idea of asking Mycroft had lingered for a moment, before Sherlock had dismissed that as well. He had already analysed every moment of the dream several times, and he doubted his brother could do much better. 

Sherlock picked his feet up and forced himself to start walking again, but payed no attention to his surroundings. He shut his eyes lightly and felt himself enter his mind palace. It was burning. Flames licked the edges of the building, and it was burning. Is wasn't a building anymore. It was a forest, and he was running and it was burning. Trees towered over him and the dark shapes of pine wood twisted into life. Now and then he'd catch a glimpse of the woman, and make a move to follow her, but every time he'd lose track of her and find himself lost in his memories. He passed them and each and every one was burning. It was as though time had paused around him.

He reached a memory and watched as the flames engulfed it. In this one he was meeting John Watson for the first time. Time was frozen between the two as John held his phone out for Sherlock, their hands so close to touching, but at the same time, so far away. John was unreachable now. He wondered if he'd ever be able to reach him again. 

Another memory. This time it was Musgrave Hall, and it was burning too. Flames upon flames as Sherlock walked through the maze in his mind, past the mossy tombstones and crumbling ash that drifted through the air like snow, and settled upon his dark curls. Sherlock kept walking.

Now he was stood on a rooftop. He could see John below. He didn't realize how far the distance between the two could be until this point. Then he watched as the younger version of himself fell to the floor and shattered like red glass. 

Then he stood in the dark. The luminescent glow of the water reflected the rippling effect onto his face as he stared in horror at the pale-faced woman, her eyes staring unblinking into Sherlock's, her ruby red lips pressed into a thin line. Blood began seeping through her white shirt, and infused the water around her, gradually spreading to the rest of the pool until the room was illuminated by the red glow of blood, and still the woman stared unblinking into Sherlock's eyes. She was dead, and yet he could hear the ghost of the words on her lips, and she spoke with unbelieving clarity and conviction, the urgency in her voice making him tremble with fear.

"The blue deity."

With a small gasp, Sherlock pulled himself out of his thoughts. He had stopped just outside Baker Street, the light in the doorway looking especially welcoming against the darkness of the street. He could go home now. Be with John. Find a case. He needed a case really. It was the only distraction. But he couldn't go home yet, he couldn't let the warmth of the flat envelope him, lulling him into slumber. He couldn't give in to sleep. It wasn't an option.

He'd ask Lestrade for a case in the morning. Until then he would sit on the street in the doorway of 221B, avoiding sleep for as long as possible, and escaping the nightmares terrorizing him. Pulling his coat around him and settling down against the cold steps, Sherlock thought again about his dream.

Deep water. All his life. Deep water.

He wished he was dead. The dead don't dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider commenting feedback! I own the plot of this story, and any additional characters, but the rights to Sherlock go to the BBC and ACD. I will hopefully update again soon. This is set after the events of TFP.


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